Categories: uncategorized
Date: 12 January 2007 11:39:03
I bought a record the other day.
So, you see, it was like this. One day I read in a music magazine a review of some guy's CD that made it sound quite interesting, and a little later I found it in the bargain bin in a local shop, because it was missing its case. I thought it worth a gamble of a few quid so bought it and gave it a listen. It was pretty good although the lyrics were often tainted with the poetry of someone who I generally feel is a twit. (I'm being polite by putting an i there - if I were less so I might give it an a instead). In fact, there really was some kind of magic in the music, some spirit to it that I couldn't put my finger on but which was warm and encouraging and gave me a lift to listen to. Sometime later I came across another CD by this guy, in the second-hand section so again quite cheap and so I bought it. It was similar, and similarly good, with similar slight lyrical niggles and a similar warm feeling that outweighed the niggles. But there is something impenetrable or incomprehensible about both it and the earlier CD which makes them not quite as familiar as they could be. One aspect of this is that the song titles don't usually bear much relation to the lyrics, so when I read the song list it doesn't actually mean much to me, even though I know the songs - I just don't know them by their titles. Perhaps because of this mysterious unfamiliarity it feels like I only recently bought the first CD and, consequently, bought the second one even more recently, like just the other day. On the other hand, I have a clear recollection of buying the first one - I know which shop, in which shopping centre, in which maldito town, and so that means I am very much aware that it was 12 years ago that I bought it. With the second CD I don't actually recall buying it - perhaps because there was more going on in my life at the time (when I bought the first one it's probably fair to say that there was nothing going on in my life - I remember days when I'd deliberately wait until late morning before indulging in the exciting activity of going to the newsagent and seeing if any new magazines were out that I could browse (buying being beyond my worldly means at that time)). For whatever reason, I don't recall the circumstances, so I don't have such a clear imprint of the time I bought it. So my mind is quite happy to accept that it was just the other day. Which was fine until I played it the other day and the receipt fell out of the CD booklet (I tend to keep receipts for CDs and books as an aide-memoire, exactly as in this case - I wouldn't remember anything if I didn't cheat like this) and showed that I bought it in Paris nine years ago. Nine years ago. So, for me, nine years ago is just the other day. Nine years have gone by and my mind has barely noticed. Blow me. Even for me nine years is almost a quarter of my life. How can it have gone so fast? At this point I find I want to indulge in the usual clichés - What have I done with my life? What have I achieved in those nine years? Well actually the answer there is quite a lot - two children, a book, a proper job, a huge number of good friendships made, lost, and more made, and loads more stuff. Perhaps the only thing I haven't achieved is listening to those two CDs enough.